


Pieces Were Stolen From Me

by perfect_plan



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Steve Rogers, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Military Bucky, descriptions of violence, mild violence, tragic past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 16:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10835193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfect_plan/pseuds/perfect_plan
Summary: Steve Rogers is drawn to the mysterious man who has started to frequent his gallery but has no idea how is life is about to change just by being his friend.





	Pieces Were Stolen From Me

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I would never finish this!! It's been too long since my last fic due to busy life stuff but here it is. It's maybe a little darker than my usual stuff but hopefully still enjoyable.
> 
> Apologies for the double spacing in the latter half of the fic - it's something I'll have to edit later! Also, I'm very sorry if I've been extra slow in answering comments and continue to do so - things have been super busy and stressful because as well as having a freelance job, I also have a mini-me to look after who is a delightful handful. Any free time is usually spent trying to write at least 500 words a night if I can manage it before bed or just falling asleep!

No-one ever truly knows when their lives will change forever. Steve Rogers certainly didn't. It was like any other day that had come before and he couldn't know that one encounter with a stranger would change him beyond measure.

Steve owned and ran a small art gallery in Brooklyn, off the beaten track a little. It was one of those places people were more likely to stumble upon than go out of their way to find but it was getting a little more well known. He sold his own work, oil paintings mainly, and also other local artist's work. He made a good living and his apartment was three blocks away. He was happy enough, if a little lonely; making friends didn't come easy to him and his parents had died four years ago. He was too self-conscious, too shy. He was great in the gallery which was the worst part: he could talk up other people's art and sell it and hold conversations but taking it any further was out of his comfort zone. He made do though. His passion was his work.

It had been a slow day; the weather was cold and dreary - a perfect winter-in-New-York-day - so the gallery had been quiet. Steve didn't mind as it meant he could work on his new piece. Music played softly over the speaker system and he considered the painting before him. He wasn't really a fan of abstract art but he had woken up that morning with his mind in a mess and needed to vent it onto canvas. It had helped and now his mind was staring back at him in greys and reds. He put down his brush and rubbed his eyes. Time for coffee. He made himself a cup from the machine in the small alcove behind his desk/studio (it made better coffee than his one at home), and perched on his desk, hands wrapped around his cup and considered the piece; it needed something else but he couldn't think what.

The door opened and a couple walked in. Steve greeted them and they smiled and began to wander around slowly and look at the various drawings and paintings. Steve only dealt with 2D art; sculpture was beyond him. He felt a pang of pleasure as the couple stopped at one of his larger oil paintings of a Brooklyn brownstone in the summer and made happy noises.

The door opened again and a man walked in on his own. He pushed his hair from his eyes and shoved his hands in his pockets. He nodded at Steve in greeting. He had extremely intense eyes; attentive and cautious. Steve noticed that secondly. He was struck first more by the shade of blue they were: Like the sky reflecting in a still lake on a clear winter's day, bright but cold, the surface betraying what lay beneath.

Steve put down his coffee and fumbled to reach his paints, desperate to mix the color on his palette. Without thinking, his dabbed his brush into the paint and flick his wrist at the canvas he'd been working on. A slash of brilliant blue cut through the greys and reds and he stepped back.

"That's it," he muttered to himself.

The couple left, waving at Steve as they closed the door. The man with the blue eyes was staring at one of Steve's charcoal pieces, arms crossed. He looked lost in thought. He was very handsome, his chin-length hair a rich brown flecked with sienna when it caught the light. Steve noticed colors within colors. He didn't realize he had been staring until he saw that the man was looking directly at him, his face questioning.

Steve quickly stepped out from behind his desk. "I'm sorry," he said with a smile. "I was daydreaming. Can I help you at all?"

The man shoved his hands back into the pockets of his leather jacket. As Steve got closer to him, he saw that the man was around his own age. He was taller than Steve -  _ everyone _ was taller than Steve - with broad shoulders. He looked very tired and there was the stink of loneliness about him. Steve knew it all too well because he reeked of it himself.

"Just looking. I didn't know this place was here."

Steve chuckled. "Not many people do. Feel free to look. Take your time." He was about to leave the guy alone but he spoke again.

"This one..." he waved a hand at the charcoal picture. "What does it mean?"

Steve rocked on his heels. "What do you think it means?"

The man glanced at him with a frown.

"I mean," Steve said and stepped next to him so they were both facing the drawing , "what do you feel when you look at it?"

The man stared at the piece for a long time. "I don't know," he finally said. His voice was quiet.

"That's the beauty of art," Steve said. "One day a painting or drawing can mean nothing to you but the next day it might mean everything. Context is paramount in art, especially for the viewer."

The man grunted. "Maybe I'll come back tomorrow."

Steve smiled again. "Maybe it will make more sense then." He started back to his desk. He heard the man say "maybe" to himself, so softly that Steve almost didn't hear him.

It was getting close to closing time so Steve started to pack up his paints. The man left without another word. Steve didn't think he would come back; people who said they would rarely did. It was a pity because the man had the kind of face that Steve wanted to draw and paint, not that he'd ever have the guts to ask the guy if he would be interested in modelling for him. He often paid people to pose; he liked to stay fresh with his life drawing and could never find the time outside of the gallery to go to a class. Something told him that the guy would probably not appreciate being asked to model though.

He locked the door and drew the blind. He gathered up his bag and coat. He turned off the lights and stepped out into the cold evening and headed home.

***

But the man did come back the next day.

Steve was sketching today; he needed time away from the painting he had been working on. It was busier this afternoon and he wouldn't have gotten much painting done anyway. A group of art students had found the gallery and were chatting animatedly about the work on the walls. Steve smiled to himself. It was nice to have people openly passionate about art inside the gallery and he listened to their debates and critiques with half an ear as he drew.

The door to the gallery opened and Steve's attention immediately left his sketchbook: It was the handsome man from the day before. He was wearing an outfit almost identical to yesterday's and he strode straight over to the charcoal canvas again, standing before it.

Steve watched him; he didn't move from his spot for a full ten minutes, ignoring the students around him, focussed on the image in front of him. Even though he was still, Steve could see his shoulders relax the tiniest amount. Steve gave him a few more moments and then walked over and stood next to him.

"You came back," Steve said.

The guy continued to stare at the picture. "I wanted to see how I felt about this today. If it would mean anything to me."

"And does it?" Steve asked.

"Yes. It makes me feel calm." The guy finally turned and looked at him. He seemed more relaxed today, less tired. His blue eyes were bright and piercing.

Steve grinned. "I'm glad to hear that."

The guy folded his arms. "It doesn't mean I'm going to buy it or anything."

Steve wasn't offended by his brashness. "I wasn't expecting you to. I drew this and I wanted to know what you thought, that's all."

The guy was taken aback for a split second and turned back to the canvas, reading the information card on the wall next to it. "You're Steven Grant Rogers?"

"Yes."

The guy chuffed. "Well."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable," Steve said, what little confidence he had wavering.

"You didn't," said the man. "I'm impressed." He looked around at the other pieces. "Are these all yours?"

Steve shook his head. "No. Just some of them."

The man raised an eyebrow. "I guess I need to have a good look around, then." He started to amble around the gallery, taking in the artwork.

Steve went back to his desk; he could feel the flush starting on his face and neck and didn't want the man to see. He hated that he blushed. He turned red easily; no matter how calm he tried to will himself, the color of his face would betray him in seconds. He was often picked on in school about it and one group of boys in particular used to follow him around, shouting obscene things just to laugh at how red he would get.

He took a few sips of water from his bottle and then made himself a cup of coffee. The students were laughing and one trotted over to him.

"Excuse me, is it okay if we sit and do some drawing? We'll try not to get in the way of customers only this place is really cool and we'd like to sketch some of the work for our art college project." The girl was enthusiastic and Steve could see they weren't troublemakers.

"Sure, go for it."

The girl beamed. "Thank you, sir. We'll make sure to tell the others about this place." She bounced back over to her group of friends and they all settled on the floor and started to draw quietly.

Steve doodled half-heartedly, glad there was music playing softly in the background. He glanced over at the man. He was looking at Steve's painting of the brownstone. Steve lowered his head and started to draw again. After a little while, the man made his way over to Steve's desk.

Steve looked up and gave him his "professional" smile. "Hello again."

"You're a very talented artist, Steven Grant Rogers. I'm not usually one for art but this has surprised me."

Steve tapped his pencil against his sketchbook. "You don't seem like the kind of person who is easily surprised." He wasn't sure what had made him say that but the man smirked.

"I'm not. So congratulations."

Steve didn't know quite what to make of this guy but there was something about him, beyond the good looks and offhand way he spoke, that drew him in. "I have a new exhibition starting next week by a British artist. You should check it out."

"I might." The man turned and started towards the door. Steve was surprised at how disappointed he felt that he was going but before he left, the man called out without turning back, "Your work stands out the most." The gallery door closed.

Steve was distracted for the rest of the day and his doodles started to turn into sketches of cold blue eyes.

 

***

 

The man didn't come back into the gallery until the following week. It was late in the afternoon and things had slowed down. It had been a busy day and Steve was sitting at his desk, sorting through some boxes of flyers for Peggy Carter's exhibition. He loved Peggy's work almost as much as he liked her and he wanted to get her as much attention as he could.

He had been distracted for the last week, though. He couldn't stop thinking about the guy with the blue eyes. Steve knew he should just forget him and focus on more important things like running his business and getting Peggy's show in order but there had been  _ something _ about the guy that had wormed its way into Steve's mind. He was like the clichéd tall dark stranger from books and movies.

Steve sighed. His life wasn't much like the books and movies. He looked up from his leaflet folding when the door opened and swallowed. It was the guy. He nodded in greeting to Steve and started to walk around the gallery again. Even from here, Steve could see that he was tired and tense. Steve just continued with his folding, occasionally glancing up to see what pieces the man was looking at.

After a little while, he made his way over to Steve's desk. His eyes were bloodshot with dark smudges underneath. For a moment, Steve wondered if the man was a junkie - he'd had them wander into the gallery before. Steve tried not to judge people; you could never truly know someone's circumstances or the reasons they were in them that led them to drugs and addiction. The thought left him quickly; the man was lucid and almost hesitant in his approach, as though he was one second from running out of the gallery door. Like a beacon, Steve could sense the air of isolation about the man and he wanted to reach out, as much for himself as for anything.

"Hi again," Steve said pleasantly.

"Hi," the man said, and he relaxed a little.

"You seem to be becoming more of an art lover."

The man shrugged. "There aren't many places I feel at ease in. This gallery always seems to do the trick."

Steve smiled. "I'm glad to hear that. I uh, I know you know my name already from my work but I'm Steve." He held out his hand.

The guy looked down at Steve's hand and there was that hesitation again. "Bucky," he finally said and shook Steve's hand. Steve would come to know that this moment was the turning point for them, the moment Bucky decided to tell him his name.

"Pleased to meet you. Officially," Steve said. "I was just about to make myself a cup of coffee. Would you like to join me?" He indicated to the coffee machine behind him.

"You sell coffee here too?" Bucky asked.

Steve got up and started to put in a new filter. "No, but if friends and clients come in I'll make some." He bristled, thinking that he may have been a little presumptuous with this statement.

"Sure. A cup would be great," Bucky said.

Steve made them coffee and they sat together and drank quietly, he on his chair, Bucky leaning on his desk.

"Have you worked here long?" Bucky asked.

"I've been painting professionally since college but I bought this place about two years ago."

Bucky nodded, impressed. "Cool. Working for yourself is the way to go."

"Do you work for yourself?" Steve asked, glad to be able to finally get to know this guy a little. Daydreaming about a handsome stranger was all well and good but this was better and might actually lead to something that existed outside of Steve's head.

Bucky took a long sip of his drink. "Kind of."

"What do you do?"

Bucky was silent for a moment. "Public relations."

"Really?" Steve said with interest. "What kind?"

Bucky put his mug down and stood up. "I have to go. Thank you for the coffee." He started to walk quickly towards the door.

Steve rose from his chair, confused and a little hurt. He had messed up somehow. "Oh, okay. It was nice to talk - "

The door to the gallery closed behind Bucky.

" - to you," Steve said softly to himself. He looked at Bucky's mug and sat back down, the gallery empty. "Idiot," he said angrily to himself.

***

Because Steve was Steve, he spent the next week analyzing everything he had said to Bucky and where he could have screwed up. He knew he shouldn't have cared so much - he didn't even know the guy - but still.

He was closing up the gallery one evening, more than ready to go home and do nothing but eat dinner and go to bed. He stepped outside to lock the door and pull down the shutter.

"Hi," someone said.

Steve jumped and there was Bucky, leaning against the outside of the gallery. "Hi," Steve said back when he sure he wasn't having a heart attack. He hadn't even heard Bucky approach him.

"I owe you an apology," Bucky said.

Steve pulled the shutter down and locked it. "You don't owe me anything."

"I do," Bucky said softly. "You were nice to me and I was rude."

Steve shrugged and looked at the ground. "It's no big deal."

"It is to me. Can I at least buy you a cup of coffee to make up for last week?" Bucky asked and when Steve looked up at him, his face was sad and apologetic. Steve was a sucker for a genuine apology and this was one if ever he saw it, even if he didn't think it was entirely necessary.

He smiled. "Sure."

They walked down the street. Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets and stared straight ahead.

"So how are you?" Steve asked, not wanting his shyness to get the better of him.

"Been better," Bucky said.

Steve pointed to a café up ahead. "This place is pretty nice. It's quiet."

"Perfect."

Steve sat down at a table in the corner while Bucky ordered and paid for their drinks. Steve felt a little sorry for him; he seemed uncomfortable in front of people. Maybe he suffered from social anxiety. He seemed a little introverted. Steve could relate; he struggled some days to talk to people in the gallery without wanting to just turn and run into the closet to hide for a while.

Steve smiled when Bucky returned with a black coffee for himself and a huge foaming latte for Steve. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

They sat quietly for a little while.  The café was relatively empty but Bucky kept glancing around, his eyes darting over everyone else at least ten times.

"It's okay, you know. To be introverted," Steve blurted out, breaking the silence.

Bucky's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Introverted?"

"Yeah, I...assumed? You're very quiet and you seem uncomfortable in public places. It's alright; I kind of am too. I mean, I'm more shy than anything but I try my best not to be, with the gallery and all..."

Bucky's face quirked in a little smile. "Wouldn't think you were shy the way you're babbling on right now."

Steve mumbled something and stared into his latte.

"That's not a bad thing. I'm not very good company."

Steve looked up. "I wouldn't be sat here with you if I thought that."

Bucky's face darkened slightly again but Steve had turned away so he missed it. "You probably wouldn't want to sit here if you knew me."

Steve wrapped his hands around his mug. "Tell me some things about yourself and I'll make up my own mind on that."

Bucky seemed to be equal parts annoyed and amused at Steve, almost as though he was trying to push him away but Steve kept pushing back. He huffed out a breath and leaned back in his chair. "I like to read. Sci-fi mainly: Asimov, Heinlein, Dick, Clarke, Bradbury. The classics. New stuff doesn't do it for me."

Steve brightened a little. "Oh, I like Asimov too."

"I don't really have any other hobbies."

"Work keeps you busy?" Steve asked.

At the mention of work, Bucky's face changed again and Steve panicked, thinking he had blown it again. But Bucky just bit his lip and nodded.

"I know how that feels," Steve said. "I sometimes forget that my work isn't everything, that I need to step back every now and again."

Bucky stared at his drink and his voice was softer but laced with something hard. "My work isn't the kind you can step away from."

Steve wanted to ask him again what he did but he was starting to learn that this was a sore point for Bucky. "I'm sorry to hear that."

Bucky downed the rest of his coffee. "You're lucky - doing what you love for a living."

"I guess," Steve said. "But I often wonder if I made the right decision doing what I do."

Bucky's shoulders sagged. "Me too," he said quietly.

"We can only do our best." Steve glanced at the time. "I'm really sorry but I have to go. I have an early start tomorrow." He wanted to stay more than anything but he’d be a wreck tomorrow.

Bucky immediately stood. "Sure, no problem."

They walked outside. It was a chilly evening and Steve shivered, pulling his coat collar up.

"Don't be a stranger. You can come back to the gallery anytime," he said to Bucky.

Bucky didn't seem to be affected by the cold. "I will."

"Thank you for the coffee." Steve nodded and started to walk off to the subway. He glanced back as he was turning the corner of the block and Bucky was still standing outside of the cafe, looking lost.

***

Steve left the ball in Bucky's court as to what happened next. He couldn't not - he had no means of contacting him anyway. Steve was run off his feet with Peggy's show for the next two weeks and while he barely had two minutes to himself, he would still glance expectantly at the door, hoping that Bucky would walk in. He was always disappointed.

He didn't know why he wanted to be Bucky's friend so badly; he didn't know him. But something about him drew Steve in like iron filings to a magnet. He was both soft and hard, blunt and sharp. Steve started to notice that drawings of Bucky crept into his sketchbooks more often.

Peggy's show was a hit; she sold 9 of her 20 pieces on the opening night, word had gotten around and they were both optimistic about the show's run.

It was almost a month later when Bucky came back.

It was a cold, wet morning. Steve was huddled at his desk, wrapped in his coat and scarf. The gallery had heating but on days like this, it seeped in and made Steve miserable. He was considering closing early - it had been a depressingly slow day and he couldn't bring himself to paint - when Bucky came through the door.

Steve immediately perked up, already breaking the promise he had made to himself not to get his hopes up. "Bucky, hi!" he said brightly.

"Hi Steve," Bucky said and walked up to his desk. His eyes were a little red and he looked exhausted.

"Are you okay?" Steve asked softly, concerned.

"Steve, I like you a lot," Bucky said. "I know I barely know you but I like you." His eyes were determined as he said it.

Steve was stunned. "I...I like you too."

"I can't be friends with you," Bucky said. "I came here to say goodbye."

Steve felt like he'd been punched. Confusion coursed through him. "Oh, I...but..."

"I'm so sorry," Bucky said and his voice had dropped low. "If I like you too much..." he closed his eyes. "I can't like anyone too much."

"But why?"

Bucky seemed to gather himself and the wall went up again. "Because I can't," he said simply and sharply. "It's better this way." He turned and headed to the door. "Goodbye, Steve."

Steve all but leapt across his desk, scattering papers and pencils. He heard the shatter of a mug behind him as he tried to follow Bucky. "Wait, please just wait!"

But Bucky was out of the door before Steve could reach it and when he stumbled breathless out onto the grey street, Bucky was nowhere to be seen.

 

***

 

Steve tried to piece together something, anything about Bucky after that. Bucky obviously wasn't his real name so Steve couldn't look him up. He was evasive about his life and his work which was never a good sign. Steve tried to convince himself that he was better off without trying to be friends with someone like that; he didn't need that kind of trouble in his life. He tried to turn his hurt into anger, to tell himself that whatever kind of person Bucky was, he wasn't worth it.

He didn't sound very convincing, even to himself.

***

Three months passed and things went back to normal. Steve stopped reacting like Pavlov's Dogs whenever the gallery door opened, hoping that Bucky had changed his mind and wanted to be friends. He had a sudden influx of painting commissions for himself and had some interesting shows lined up. Life went on.

He stayed late at the gallery one evening, well past closing time. He had been on a roll with his painting and didn't want to stop, pleased with his work. He finally stopped working at around 10pm, his shoulders aching but in a satisfying way. He stepped back to look at the painting one more time before packing up his belongings and closing up.

As he was locking the outside shutter, there was a shuffling noise behind him.

"Steve."

Steve turned and Bucky was there. Part of Steve was relieved and happy to see him, the other part angry and still hurt. Anything that he was about to say died on his lips when Bucky stepped a little closer into the light.

His face was waxy and pale, beaded with sweat. The dark smudges under his eyes were even more pronounced. He was hugging himself tightly.

"Bucky, are you...are you alright?" Steve said, hesitating to approach him.

Bucky swallowed visibly. "I know you have no reason to help me, not after the way I left but I need..." His eyes closed and he stumbled against the gallery's shutter.

Steve saw then that he had been hugging his left arm to himself. It hung at his side as Bucky clutched it just below the shoulder. In the dim light of the quiet street, Steve could see the blood that covered Bucky's hand, dark and shiny and his own blood turned to ice in his veins.

"Oh my god; we need to get you a hospital," he said frantically, reaching for his cell phone.

Bucky flinched. "No. No hospital. I can do it myself I just need somewhere...somewhere safe. Can we go in?"

"All I have is the coffee machine and a supply closet," Steve said, growing more panicked. "I use the bathroom in the burger place across the street."

Bucky winced and rested his head on the shutter, sucking in a breath. Steve finally moved and took his other arm, tugging him onto the street.

"My apartment," he said and stopped when Bucky pulled him back.

"No," he said firmly. "I can't put you in danger."

Steve looked him dead in the eye and tightened his grip on Bucky's good arm. "I'm not leaving you here so it's either the hospital or my apartment."

Bucky's face contorted into sorrow through the pain. "I didn't want to get you involved."

"Well I am now. Come on. Please. I live three blocks away."

Bucky wiped at the sweat on his forehead. "Okay. Okay. But we do this my way. Stay out of sight as much as possible. We take the train. No walking. On the subway, we keep our backs to the wall and get a carriage either at the very front or very back."

"Fine," Steve said, scared by Bucky's words but wanting to trust him. He tried to get Bucky moving again but Bucky remained where he was, the blood from his arm dripping onto the street at a steady rate that frightened Steve.

"Steve," Bucky hissed. "I mean it." His eyes were clear again and they burned into Steve's like cold fire.

"Alright," Steve said and they started to move.

***

The journey back to Steve's was tense. He half expected some kind of ambush to hit them the way Bucky steered him into unlit corners and all but shielded him on the subway. Bucky obviously had some kind of military training; Steve could tell by the way he moved. He didn't seem to be in as much pain now. He had tucked his blood-soaked hand into his jacket pocket and was alert and taut. He was still constantly wiping the sweat from his face and no sooner had he cleared it, new beads formed immediately.

Steve moved as quickly as he could when Bucky told him to and they made it to Steve's brownstone. They went up the stairs to his apartment on the fourth floor - Bucky flat out refused to take the elevator - and when the door to the apartment was closed, Bucky stood at the peephole for a long time, staring out into the corridor. Steve watched anxiously, the silence around them both unbearable.

Finally, Bucky turned to Steve and the pain and exhaustion returned to his face and he staggered in the hallway, crying out.

Steve hurried to him but Bucky shook his head. "Please...I need some boiled water...ibuprofen if you have it...some...something to use as a dressing."

Steve left Bucky leaning against the wall and rushed to his kitchen. He had a well-stocked first aid kit - he lived by himself after all - and grabbed the huge roll of sterile gauze and packets of dressing. He filled the kettle with fresh water and set it to boil. He found painkillers and ducked into his bedroom to grab some clean towels. As an afterthought, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from his kitchen.

Bucky was sitting on the hallway floor cradling his arm and trying to control his breathing. He got slowly to his feet when Steve appeared. "I got blood on your floor," he said.

Steve started to lead Bucky to the bathroom. "It doesn't matter." He dumped everything into the sink and set the whiskey down on the floor. "I didn't know if you wanted that too."

Bucky managed a sickly smile as he sat on the edge of the bath tub. "Can't hurt."

Steve heard the kettle boil and ran back to the kitchen. He filled his largest bowl with the boiled water and carefully carried it back to the bathroom, setting it on the floor next to the whiskey.

"What can I do?" he asked.

Bucky got dizzily to his feet and ushered Steve out. "Nothing more."

"But - " Steve said.

"No, Steve. You shouldn't have to see this." He shut the door and locked it.

***

Steve waited in his living room, wringing his hands and jiggling his leg. What the hell had happened to Bucky? And what was he doing, performing surgery on himself? Steve ran his hands through his hair and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. This was  _ insane _ .

Time dragged on. Steve thought he heard Bucky cry out once but the sound wasn't followed up at all. It was almost 1am when Bucky finally unlocked the bathroom door and stepped out. Steve had been on the verge of knocking and demanding that Bucky let him in but he sighed in relief when Bucky walked through into the living room. His long hair was tied back and he was wearing a grey t-shirt that was almost completely soaked with dried blood. His shoulder and upper arm were tightly wrapped in gauze and he looked utterly exhausted; pale and gaunt, still in pain and a little hazy.

"Are you alright?" Steve asked, knowing it was a stupid question as soon as it left his mouth.

Bucky didn't seem to think so. "Better," he said and his voice slurred a little. He held up Steve's bottle of whiskey which was now empty. "Sorry. I finished your whiskey."

"Did you drink that  _ and _ take pain killers?" Steve asked, terrified again.

"Don't worry," Bucky said. "I'm made of stern stuff." He wobbled over to the couch and slumped onto it. He closed his eyes. "I'll just rest for a few minutes and then I'll go."

"Like hell you will," Steve said and went to his bedroom. He dug around in his closet for a t-shirt that his ex had left behind; it should fit Bucky. He scooped up some blankets and a pillow and went back out to the living room.

Bucky scowled when he saw the things piled in Steve's arms. "Steve - "

Steve dumped the stuff onto one of his armchairs and threw Bucky the t-shirt. "You don't have to tell me what happened but you can at least have the courtesy to stay here and rest before you disappear again. I'd rather know that you were okay for one fucking night."

Bucky's jaw tightened as he stared at the t-shirt, his shoulders slumping in resignation. Steve wasn't sure if it was guilt or weariness that got the better of him. "As long as I stay here, you're in danger and I'm in a pretty poor state to be much use to you if...if something happens."

"I'll take that chance," Steve said, now too tired himself to try and be worried about Bucky's cryptic warnings. "That shirt is ruined."

Bucky tugged it off with effort and pulled the fresh one over his head. "Thanks for this."

"It's just a shirt."

"I mean...everything," Bucky said.

Steve took the wrecked t-shirt and quickly glanced away when he saw the scars on Bucky's upper body. He didn't want to gawp but Bucky looked as though he'd had a rough life. "Just sleep, okay?"

Bucky lay down on the couch and pulled one of the blankets over himself, his eyes heavy and unfocused. "You're a good guy. Too good for me. Too good for the things I've done."

Steve wasn't sure what Bucky meant by any of that but his heart started to pound again. "Why did you come to the gallery tonight, Bucky?" he asked. "You could have gone anywhere to fix yourself up."

Bucky's eyes were pin-wheeling as he tried to stay awake. "I wanted to see you again, just in case..."

"In case what?" Steve said quietly, already knowing the answer and not sure he was ready to hear it.

Bucky's eyes closed. "I love your artwork so much. That charcoal piece..." His voice was thick. "I like the one in the hallway too. A lot."

He was talking about the grey and red abstract piece he had been working on the day Bucky had first walked into the gallery. The one that had the blue of Bucky's eyes in it.

"That painting is of you," Steve said softly.

Bucky didn't open his eyes again and his breathing was deep and ragged. Steve stood and watched him for a few moments, the adrenaline in his system draining away leaving him feeling done in and like he wanted to cry. He picked up the empty whiskey bottle and put it in the kitchen and went into the bathroom.

There was a smudge of blood in the sink, as though Bucky had tried to clean up after himself but had been too out of it. There was a length of suture thread and a needle on the edge of the bath and Steve sucked in a breath.  _ Bucky had stitched himself up? _

There was a ball of toilet paper on the floor, stained with blood. Steve picked it up and carefully unwrapped it, unsurprised to see the bullet when it rolled into his hand. He had never seen one up close before. The slug was smaller than he thought without the casing. He quickly balled it back up and left the wad of tissue where he'd found it.

Back in the living room, Bucky was still sleeping. Steve went and got the comforter from his bed and a pillow and turned off the living room lamps. He curled up as best he could in one of his armchairs and listened to Bucky breathing in the dark.

He didn't fall asleep for a long time.

***

He knew that Bucky would be gone when he woke up.

The pillow and blankets had been folded and stacked neatly on the couch. The bathroom was spotless, all evidence of Bucky's injury gone. Even the blood in the hallway was nowhere to be seen. Steve had no doubt that Bucky had wiped down every surface he had touched to get rid of his fingerprints.

Steve felt oddly empty as he stood in the living room. Last night felt like a dream. Had Bucky even been here at all? He moved to the couch to pick up the pillow and blankets and put them away when he saw something lying on top of the neat stack.

It was a pair of dog tags. Steve ran his fingers over the name in raised writing on one of them.  _ Barnes, James B _ . Had Bucky left these on purpose? He must have done from the way they had been placed on the blanket. What did it mean, though? Was he coming back for them? Was it a parting gift?

Steve sat down on the couch and held the tags, wondering if he would ever see Bucky again.

***

Two months passed by. The hurt and anger Steve had felt before was now replaced with a gnawing worry: What had happened to Bucky? Where was he? He couldn't stop thinking about the bullet, wrapped up in bloody tissue.

The pieces were slowly falling into place for him; Bucky's evasiveness about his work and life, that whole night he had come to Steve thinking it might be the last time they would see each other. He still didn't know if Bucky was truly a good person but his line of work, if Steve had guessed correctly, said otherwise. It was all he could think about.

He kept the dog tags on him in his coat or jeans pocket, pulling them out and touching them over and over, running his fingers along them like a rosary.

 

***

 

Spring was trying it's best to break through the New York winter but the cold weather was clinging on for dear life.

Steve waved the last of the art students out of the gallery and locked the door. He packed up his bag and switched off the coffee machine. He turned off the lights and walked outside, locking the door behind him. As he pulled down the shutter and locked that too, he heard a familiar shuffle on the dim street behind him. His heart soared.

_ Bucky. Bucky had come back. _

He turned but before he could say anything, he was slammed back hard against the shutter and a tall, dark-haired man was shoving his forearm into Steve's throat. Steve tried to cry out but the man pressed on his windpipe. Steve's arms dangled uselessly at his sides.

"Where is he?" the man sneered. He had a cruel, smug smile on his face and his dark eyes were mean. He lessened the pressure on Steve's neck so he could answer.

"W-who?" Steve choked out. He had never been so terrified in all his life.

The man slammed him into the shutter again, winding him and making black spots dance in his eyes. "Don't play fuckin' dumb with me.  _ Barnes _ . Where's Barnes?"

Steve's eyes widened and the man look pleased. "I...I don't know. I haven't seen him for - "

With lightning speed, the man whipped out a bowie knife from his jacket and rested the tip against Steve's jaw. It was big, with a serrated edge, dirty silver in the poor evening light.

"Don't try and be a hero," the man hissed. "He sure as hell isn't worth it."

Steve squeezed his eyes shut. He was doing everything he could not to piss himself. "I haven't seen him for months."

The man was quiet for a moment, then he spun Steve around, bending his right arm back far enough to make Steve scream in pain. He hoped that someone would hear him.  _ Please _ , he prayed to anyone listening.

"You're going to unlock these shutters and we're going inside to have a nice chat. You do anything other than what I just told you to do and I will cut your fucking head off." He said it almost conversationally and Steve had no doubt as to how serious the man was.

His arm was released but he could feel the bowie knife at his side as he unlocked the shutter and pulled it back up. He unlocked the gallery door, his hands trembling. As soon as the door was open, the man shoved Steve hard, sending him flying inside and he landed roughly on the floor. The man pulled the shutter down and closed the gallery door, locking it behind him. Steve stayed on the floor, watching as the man stalked around him in the dark.

"When did you see him last?" he said.

Steve swallowed. His mouth tasted like vomit. "About two months ago."

"Where?"

"Here," Steve answered. He had already decided to not give this guy the right information. There was a chance he already knew where Steve lived but he wasn't going to risk giving him that if he didn't.

The man stood over Steve. "What did he want?"

"He...he said goodbye. He said that he couldn't see me any more because it was dangerous."

The man laughed and it was malicious. "Aw, did he get himself a little boyfriend?  _ Little _ being the operative word."

Anger cut through Steve's fear. "We were friends. He came here to look at my work."

The man suddenly lunged and grabbed Steve by his coat collar, lifting him easily from the floor and slamming him again into the wall. Steve cried out in pain as the back of his head smacked the concrete. Calloused hands wrapped around Steve's throat.

"If you're lying to me, I'll kill you," the man said. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

Steve was suddenly overcome with a strange sense of calm. There was a very good chance that he was going to die tonight. The thought was clear in his mind. If that was the case, he wasn't just going to let it happen. He remembered a video he had watched a few weeks back that someone had shared on Facebook. It was a self-defence video intended for women but that didn't seem to matter.

Steve quickly raised his arms above his head and brought them down hard on the guy's, breaking his grip on his neck. The guy looked surprised and Steve snarled and hooked his fingers and started to jab at the guy's eyes and raised his knee as hard as he could, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction as he caught the man in the groin.

The guy tried to shriek when Steve's fingers poked his eyes but instead it turned into a breathy whistle as Steve's knee crushed his balls. He staggered back, doubled over. Steve ducked to the side and made a run for the door. He focussed everything on getting to the door, unlocking it and raising up the shutter. Before he was even halfway there though, he was yanked back. The man had recovered quickly and spun Steve around, punching him hard in the face.

Steve's head swam as he hit the floor but he had enough lucidity in him to roll onto his back and kick out with his legs. He didn't stand a chance against this guy - he was taller and more muscular than Steve, build like a Pit Bull - but he was going to give it everything he had. His heel made contact with Pit Bull's shin and he cried out, more in annoyance than pain and kicked Steve hard in the stomach.

Steve curled into a ball, finally down. His breath left him entirely and he writhed around the knot of agony where Pit Bull's foot had connected. He didn't have enough time to come back from this.

Pit Bull stalked around him, grinning. "Okay so you're not a total pussy, I'll give you that. I'm through making you think you can win against me though." He pulled Steve up and dragged him into the corner of the gallery behind his desk and pulled out his knife.

_ This is it _ , Steve thought. He was proud that he had a least put up a fight.

There was just enough street light coming in from the small shaded window that Steve could see Pit Bull standing above him. His knife caught the light. "I'll give you one more chance. Where's Barnes?"

Steve raised his head. "Go fuck yourself."

Pit Bull threw back his head and laughed. It was a terrible sound. "I was hoping you'd say something like that." He flipped the knife in his hand. "I'm going to enjoy this. I might keep your scalp as a souvenir."

Steve saw the shadow moving behind Pit Bull as he was about to take a step towards him with the knife and all of a sudden there was an arm around Pit Bull's neck, yanking him back. Pit Bull cried out behind clenched teeth and then all havoc broke loose.

Steve scooted until his back was against the wall and he watched the fight before him in his gallery, in shock. He knew that the other man was Bucky. Everything sounded feral and harsh, hard sounds as fists met cheeks and jaws but weirdly, silence from both men. They hated each other though - that much Steve could tell from here. The air was thick with it.

Steve tried to follow the fight as best he could in the dark and finally there was a yelp and Pit Bull skidded towards him, face-planting on the ground. Before he could get up Bucky was pinning him down with his knee in the small of Pit Bulls back. He grabbed a fistful of Pit Bulls hair and started to slam his face into the hard floor. His eyes were wide and furious, spit flying from his mouth.

Steve finally shook himself out of his stupor and got to his knees, his stomach throbbing dully, his throat burning.

"Bucky, stop!" he cried out but Bucky kept going, the wet noise of Pitbull's face on the concrete making Steve feel sick. "Bucky, stop it. Please don't. Don't kill him." Steve said again and grabbed Bucky's hand. He was expecting Bucky to throw him off but he stopped, panting harshly, his hair stuck to his forehead and cheeks with sweat and blood.

"He was going to kill you," Bucky spat. His fist was still twisted in Pit Bull's hair. "If I let him live, he'll come for us, he'll do terrible things. I have to."

Pit Bull was still on the ground. He wasn't dead but it was fair to say he was messed up.

"Please don't," Steve repeated. "You don't have to be that person."

Despair flooded Bucky's face then. "Steve, I'm  _ already _ that person. It doesn't make any difference."

Steve reached out his other hand and touched Bucky's face. "You don't have to be anymore. Please.  _ Please _ ."

Bucky leaned into Steve's touch a little and then pulled away, his face settling back into sternness. "I need something to tie him up with."

Steve scrambled to his feet and went to his supply closet. He had rolls of duct tape - the really strong stuff - for when he had to send out canvasses or larger pieces. He grabbed two rolls and they all but mummified Pit Bull. Bucky grabbed him by the feet.

"I'm going to throw him in the sewers." He took in Steve's horrified look. "If I leave him in a dumpster, someone will find him eventually and he'll kill them. This guy is a rat. He belongs down there and like a rat, he'll gnaw his way out. He'll do less damage to any innocent people if he's down there when he wakes up, believe me. If you don't want me to kill him, this is all I can give you."

Steve nodded numbly. He felt cold and a little detached. Shock was setting in, he realized.

Bucky seemed to pick up on this. "Steve, I need you to lock the shutter and door after me and clean up in here as best you can, okay? I'll come back and knock the first four prime numbers - two, three, five and seven - so you know it's me."

Steve nodded again, and when Bucky was gone and the door was locked, he turned the lights on and scanned the gallery. Thankfully, none of the artwork had been damaged and the only sign of anything untoward was the huge splotch of blood from Pit Bull's mashed face. He mopped it up with a cloth and bottled water and stepped back from it. It could be paint to anyone who walked in off of the street.

He heard careful knocks on the door: Two, followed by three, five and seven. He let Bucky in.

Bucky took in the stain on the floor. "That's good enough. Come on, we have to go."

Steve let Bucky take his hand and stumbled after him out onto the street. Bucky locked the door and shutter - he was wearing leather gloves - and handed Steve his keys. He swallowed nervously.

"Steve, you're in danger. Real danger. I need to get us away from here until I know enough about what is happening. Do...do you trust me?"

Black spots were creeping into the edges of Steve's vision again. What would he possibly do with himself right now if he said no? He nodded.

Bucky didn't look very convinced but he took Steve's hand again and squeezed it. "Trust me," he said and there was such desperation in his voice that Steve snapped out of his daze a little.

"I do," he whispered.

Bucky led him out into the night.

 

***

 

Steve let Bucky take his hand as they hurried through the streets, sticking to the shadows and moving as fast as they could. He couldn't think straight. All that kept running through his mind was the man who had wanted to kill him. Someone who didn't even  _ know _ him had wanted to hurt him because he was friends with Bucky.

They ran through the streets for a long time. Steve had zoned out before he realized that they were climbing into a car in a parking garage. He slid into the passenger seat and pulled on the seat belt. His hands were shaking so badly that he could barely do it. He watched as Bucky fiddled beneath the steering wheel.

"Is this your car?" Steve asked. It was a stupid question; of course it wasn't.

Bucky did something and the car started. "No," he said, pulling on his own seatbelt. "I'll leave them a note when we dump it."

Steve said nothing as they pulled out of the parking garage and Bucky headed for the highway. He was driving at a reasonable speed, constantly checking the back and side mirrors. The street lights flickered on his face, making him seen almost animated. He had wiped away the blood on his face but Steve could see a spot near his ear. His own cheek and jaw were aching where he'd been punched and he was exhausted.

"Where are we going?" Steve asked when they were on the highway.

Bucky finally turned to look at him, flicking his eyes back to the road in front of him every few seconds. "Far away until I can get my head around everything and make sure you're safe." He must have noticed Steve trembling because he pulled into the next gas station and ducked inside quickly, leaving the car idling.

Steve slumped down in his seat. He wasn't sure where they were headed. He hadn't paid any attention to any road signs. Bucky came back out carrying a grocery bag. When he got back into the car, he handed Steve a bottle of 7-Up and an apple.

"Drink and eat," he said.

Steve numbly took the soda and apple and nibbled and sipped as Bucky got back on the highway. Steve noticed that he never broke the speed limit; he guessed that Bucky was doing everything not to draw attention to them. After a while, he felt a little better. His shaking had subsided and all he felt now was a tiredness he didn't think he had ever felt before. He was starting to drift, jerking awake when his head dipped.

"Go to sleep," Bucky said softly, his voice far away.

Steve was too tired to do anything but. He shuffled in his seat and rested his head against the cool window, not caring about where they were going or what had just happened. His mind sank into blessed darkness.

***

Steve woke up when he felt the car start to slow down. He blinked and raised his head slightly, looking out of the window. The sky was still dark but he could see light on the horizon, creeping in. They had been driving all night.

He turned and looked at Bucky. He had his eyes on the road and he didn't look tired but he looked wrecked. Steve watched him for a long time.

"I'm so sorry," Bucky said quietly, not taking his eyes off of the road.

Steve sat up slowly, rolling his sore shoulders. His face was throbbing steadily now and his head was aching. "You warned me," he replied flatly.

"I shouldn't have come to you that night. It was selfish."

"But you did and here we are," Steve said and there was a harshness to his voice that he hadn't intended. Bucky's jaw tightened. "Where are we?"

"Near Fort Wayne," Bucky said.

"In  _ Indiana? _ " Steve exclaimed. Bucky had been driving for at least nine hours straight and Steve had slept the whole time.

Bucky glanced at him apologetically. "I know it's far. I just...we need to stay away for a few days. I can't risk that they know where you live if they found the gallery."

"Who is  _ they? _ " Steve said and he could feel anger replacing the fear that had been with him since last night. He had a life, a job. He couldn't do this.

"The people I used to work for," Bucky said and he zeroed in on a motel down the road. They were still in a sparsely populated area but there was a gas station and some restaurants and stores. The sun was coming up. "Looks like there are vacancies here."

They turned into the motel and Bucky parked under a large tree, away from the main road. He fiddled with the steering column again and the car went silent.

"Wait here." Bucky got and headed for the main office.

Steve watched him go and then held out his hands, looking down at them. They weren't shaking anymore. He clenched them into fists.

Bucky was back out and made his way back to the car. He opened the door and ducked his head inside. "I got us a room. If anyone asks, your name is Grant Buchanan, okay?" Steve said nothing and Bucky frowned a little. "Steve, we need to go inside."

"No."

Bucky ran his tongue over his teeth. "Steve, we don't have time for - "

"I'm not going anywhere else until you tell me who that guy was and why he wanted to kill me."

"Steve, I will, just please - "

"I know what you are."

Bucky stiffened at that and his eyes went cold. "Do you now."

Steve wasn't an idiot. He had put two and two together, or so he thought. His bravado wavered though when he saw how what he had said affected Bucky. "Are you a hitman?"

Bucky stood up straight so Steve could only see him from the chest up. After a moment Bucky got back into the car and closed the door. He gripped the steering wheel tightly.

"Are you a hitman?" Steve asked again.

Bucky sighed and leaned back in the driver's seat. "It's not as simple as that."

"How is being a hitman  _ simple? _ " Steve spat.

Bucky closed his eyes. "Steve, I  _ will _ tell you everything, alright? But only when we're inside and safe and I don't feel like I'm going to pass out." He opened his eyes and looked at Steve. "Please."

Steve bit his lip. "Alright," he said quietly.

He followed Bucky to their room. The motel room was dim and cool with a musty smell but the sheets and bathroom were clean. Steve sat down on one of the two single beds, not sure what to do. Bucky left the room but was back a moment later with an ice bucket.

Bucky locked the door and flipped the safety catch. "Put ice on your ribs and face. I'm going to have a shower and then sleep for a couple of hours because I feel sick with tiredness. I'll tell you everything then." He saw that Steve was about to protest. "I'll take the bed closest to the door so anyone coming in will have to go through me first - I'm a light sleeper."

Steve just sat back against the headboard and hugged his knees to his chest while he listened to Bucky in the shower. There was no window in the bathroom so the only way into the room was the door and the large window next to it. Steve watched it the whole time.

Bucky came back into the bedroom wearing just his jeans and drying his hair. Steve couldn't help but look at him now: His upper body was a mess of scarring. Raised welts crisscrossed his chest. His left arm looked like it had been badly burned and Steve could see the puckered scar of the bullet-wound from the night he had come to the gallery seeking help. Bucky watched Steve watching him. He wanted Steve to see this, Steve could sense that much. He didn't say a word. There was some scarring on Bucky's back but it wasn't as heavy as the marks on his chest. He drew the curtain across the window.

"You can watch TV if you want," Bucky said and climbed into the other bed with his back to Steve.

***

Bucky slept for three hours. Steve was wide awake and watched Dr Quinn: Medicine Woman with the volume way down as he hugged ice to his bruised ribs and face. He was too scared to turn his phone on; what if the people who were after them could track him through his cell? He hadn't seen Bucky with a phone so he left his at his side and chewed his fingernails nervously. At one point he went into the bathroom and looked at himself. His face was puffy. He lifted up his shirt and the side of him that Pit Bull had kicked was dark and bruised.

After a while, Bucky finally stirred and rubbed his face. He sat up and sighed. "Want some coffee?"

Steve nodded and Bucky turned on his lamp, getting out of bed and going into the bathroom to fill up the coffee pot next to the TV. He put in a fresh filter and some grounds and sat on the end of his bed, watching Dr Quinn as the coffee brewed. He didn't seem worried about anyone bursting into the room for them right this second.

"I never liked this show," he said.

"Me neither. It was the best of the worst to watch."

Bucky huffed and made them both a cup of coffee. He sat back down on his bed and stared into his mug. Steve turned off the TV and they sat in silence for a moment. Steve reached into his jacket pocket and took out Bucky's dog tags. Bucky glanced up when he heard them clink.

"Why did you leave these at my place?" Steve asked.

Buck's hands tightened on his mug. "I wanted to hope that I'd see you again some day."

"After telling me that you couldn't be friends with me anymore and then coming to me with a bullet in your arm?" Steve tossed the tags on Bucky's bed. He hated how bitter he sounded.

Bucky stared at the tags for a moment and then picked them up with his right hand. "I enlisted in the army when I was eighteen. I had no hope of going to college so I joined up. And I was good at it. Fighting. Shooting. So good I eventually made it to Special Forces. I've done a lot of bad things over the years for the greater good. I'm not proud of that but...there we go." He looked at the tags like he was remembering, putting his memories into order.

Steve daren't say anything. He was finally hearing Bucky's story.

"My unit and I had been on a mission to Siberia, a nasty one. We were tired and ready to go home but we were ambushed by a group called Hydra and taken captive."

"Terrorists?" Steve asked.

Bucky shook his head but didn't look up. "They're more than terrorists; their poison runs a lot deeper. They don't take credit for the things they do. You don't find Hydra: They find you."

Steve took a sip of his coffee. Bucky was still clutching his mug tightly and Steve could see why. His upper arms were trembling slightly. Steve felt his bitterness and anger abating.

"They wanted to recruit us and when that happens you have two choices: Join them and forget you had a life. Or die." Bucky looked up at Steve.

Steve chewed his lip. "You joined them."

"Not at first. I refused flat out, as did most of my team. But refusing to join didn't mean immediate death although some days, I wish it had." Bucky's face twisted in pain and a deep sorrow before he blinked and composed himself.  "Only one man accepted their offer and gladly."

"The guy who came after me?" Steve said.

Bucky nodded. "His name is Brock Rumlow. I called him a friend once, trusted him with my life but the moment he said yes to Hydra, I realized that I didn't know him at all."

"What happened to the rest of you?" Steve asked, already feeling sick to know the answer.

Bucky drank some of his coffee and his eyes were blank. "They tortured us, physically and psychologically. Three of my men managed to kill themselves, two died from their injuries. I was the only one left. I told them they would have to kill me before I would ever work for them."

Steve's shoulders were aching with how tense he had become. "Why didn't they?"

Bucky smiled but it was a rictus grin. "They were impressed with me. My resilience. They told me that I was perfect Hydra material and they weren't letting me go. And just so I wouldn't try and do what my team mates had done, they put a condition in place for me: They killed my parents. Horribly."

Something in Steve crumbled. "Oh my god."

"I had no idea their reach went so far. They knew everything about me. If I didn't join them, they would kill me sister too and do far worse to her than they had to my parents. So I said yes."

"Bucky," Steve said quietly.

"I worked for Hydra. I did terrible things, things I can never take back. But I did it to protect my little sister. I have to weigh the deaths of so many against her life and I don't regret it. It's more than secured my place in hell but I did it for her. I tried to run once, to get to her before they could but they found me and brought me back. They killed my best friend and her husband as punishment. They still wanted Rebecca alive to threaten me with. So I stayed."

"I would have done the same," Steve said softly. 

"After a while, I shut down. I wasn't a man anymore; I felt nothing. I killed for them." Bucky's eyes glistened and Steve knew that Bucky's sister was dead. "I did it for her."

"What happened to your sister?" Steve asked.

"She died in a car crash in Florida. It broke me and I ran. I ran from Hydra with everything I had left in me. There was no-one left for them to kill that could hold me to them. They operated mostly out of Russia but they aren't fighting for Russia. I never really knew anything about them besides who they wanted killed. I hadn't been back to America for three years. When...when Rebecca died, I fled to Germany and laid low. I found out that my unit were officially declared dead, killed in action on our last mission. Have you tried to live as a dead man? It makes getting a library card pretty difficult."

Steve didn't smile or laugh at that. He didn't think Bucky meant him too.

"I managed to make some contacts; ex-military guys who were willing to help me. Then the news came in: Some U.S led group had been tracking Hydra for a few years and took them out. Most of them anyway." Bitterness crossed his face. "Too little too late. Brock got away and I knew he'd come after me eventually so I stayed away from the States for a while, led him around Europe."

Steve swallowed thickly. "You were strong. You made it out," he said, hoping it would be some comfort to Bucky.

Bucky's face contorted. "Steve, the things I've done...I can never take back. I... "I couldn't even go to her  _ funeral _ . I never got to say goodbye to my family." Bucky rubbed his eyes, stemming his emotions. "I finally lost Brock in Morocco and I came back here. Came back home. Except it wasn't home anymore. I had nothing, no-one. My parents were dead. Rebecca, Natasha and Clint were dead. I thought about leaving again, going somewhere far away and remote to live on my own and then...then I found your gallery. Your...your artwork. It stirred something in me. I was scared, looking at your drawing, the charcoal one. I didn't think I could feel anything again and then you were kind to me and...and I just...I started to feel like a man again." He sniffed and looked away. "You made me feel like I might be able to pick my life up again. But then one morning, I thought I saw Brock on the subway and I got so scared. Not for me, but for you."

"The day you came to say goodbye," Steve said softly.

Bucky nodded. "I stayed away and Brock eventually caught up with me. We fought and I ran but he shot me. I tried to be so careful when I came to see you. I know I should have stayed away but I just...needed to feel  _ human _ one more time." Bucky's head hung low.

Steve wanted to reach out and touch him but Bucky was strung tight. He didn't think it would be a good idea. "You  _ are _ human, Bucky. What they did to you, I can't...I can't even begin to imagine it."

"The people I've killed...so many people..." Bucky started to sob, grabbing at his head, his hair hanging in his face.

Steve was conflicted: Bucky had killed people, that much was true. But he was a victim too; stripped of his own life, the people he loved taken from him. So much had happened to him. It wasn't fair. The Bucky he had gotten to know was quiet and kind; it was hard to equate him with a killer. Steve tried to imagine what he would have done in Bucky's place.

"I understand," Steve said quietly.

Bucky gulped back his tears and stood up abruptly. "We need to ditch that car and move on. I don't want to be here tonight." He put on his shirt.

Steve frowned in concern. "Bucky, just sit down for a moment - "

"No, we have to find another place to stay. We need more distance." He pulled on his shoes. "Stay here. Lock the door. I'll be back soon."

Steve stood up. "Bucky, please just - "

But Bucky was out of the door before Steve could finish, the weight of Bucky's confession heavy in the musty motel room.

 

***

 

Bucky was back an hour later with bus tickets, evidently also having gotten rid of the car he had stolen. Steve gathered the few things he had with him and followed Bucky down the street to the bus station. He was scared; Bucky’s face was hard and his eyes were vacant, like he was running purely on auto-pilot. 

Steve swallowed thickly when he saw that they were boarding a bus for Des Moines. He hoped they weren’t going any further than Iowa - he had never even been out of New York before. Bucky took the back seat of the bus on the right and Steve slid next to the window on the left. He glanced at Bucky a few times, watching as he scanned the other passengers who were travelling. He knew that Bucky wouldn’t speak to him if he asked any questions so he didn’t.

Steve stared out of the window as the bus left the station. It would take at least seven hours to get to Des Moines. Time for Bucky’s story to replay over and over in his head. Time for him to try and comes to terms with the fact that whatever happened now, his life in New York was over.

***

It was evening when they finally arrived and Steve blearily followed Bucky from the bus station to another bland motel. They checked in as Grant Buchanan and Jack Monroe and picked up some food from the restaurant next door to eat in their room. Steve munched mechanically on the salad he had picked and Bucky ate some soup and then sat in a chair by the window with the lights off, staring out into the falling night.

Steve tidied away the food containers and stared at Bucky for a moment. He finally went and took a shower, changing back into his shirt and boxers after and climbed into his bed. He turned away from Bucky and closed his eyes, willing himself to feel nothing at all.

***

Steve jerked awake, breathing heavily. He had dreamt about Pit Bull - Rumlow - trying to kill him, except that this time, Bucky hadn’t been there. He sat up, shaking. There was a glass of water next to his bed that he hadn’t put there and he gulped it down. He glanced over to the window. Bucky was still sitting there, the light from the street outside casting him in a pale glow. He was watching Steve.

“You okay?” he said quietly into the room.

“Nightmare,” Steve said and walked over to him, sitting on one of the other chairs, the material itchy against his bare legs. “About that guy. Rumlow.”

“You’re safe. Go back to bed,” Bucky said, his eyes still fixed on the street outside.

“Bucky, please talk to me,” Steve said. He put a hand tentatively on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky tensed and Steve almost expected him to knock Steve’s hand away but he didn’t.

“Go back to bed, Steve.”

Steve removed his hand and went back to bed.

***

It was morning when he woke up again, sunlight making its way through the chinks in the curtains. He rolled over in bed and turned to the window. Bucky was gone.

Steve leapt out of bed and ran to the window, looking outside. Had Bucky left him? Maybe he just gone for breakfast. Maybe...maybe he was  _ gone _ . Steve ran his hands frantically through his hair. What the hell was he supposed to do if Bucky was gone? What - 

He almost collapsed in relief when he saw the light from the bathroom, shining through the almost closed door. He walked over and peered in. Bucky was standing in front of the sink, staring into the mirror. He was topless, running his finger slowly along one of the many scars on his body.

“I can barely remember my life before all of this but I can tell you how I got each and every one of these.” His face was desperately sad and he met Steve’s eyes in the mirror.

Steve stepped up behind him and put his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. He didn’t flinch or tense but hesitantly raised his own and placed it over Steve’s. 

“Please don’t pity me,” he said quietly.

 

Steve turned Bucky to him. “You think that’s what I’m doing?” He gently stroked Bucky’s cheek with his hand.

 

Bucky closed his eyes and whimpered, leaning into the touch. When was the last time someone had touched him that didn’t include pain or fear? Steve put his other hand on Bucky’s neck and Bucky opened his eyes; there was so much  _ want _ in them, Steve could feel it.

 

“Bucky, you don’t have to be alone anymore.” He leaned forward slowly and kissed Bucky softly on the lips. “I wanted you the moment you stepped into my gallery. Before I knew about any of this. I still want you.”

Bucky whimpered again and pulled Steve closer, kissing him back. He was gentle, exploring Steve with his lips and tongue, running his hands up and down Steve’s back. He pulled away and nuzzled Steve’s neck.

 

“I wanted you too,” he said, almost breathlessly. “That first day. I saw your artwork and then I saw you and it was like...I felt like a person again.” He kissed Steve. “But I’ve ruined it. You’re not safe, you’re - “

 

Steve shook his head. “Let’s forget about that. Just for a while.”

 

Bucky nodded and went to kiss Steve again but Steve took his hand and led him back into the room and to his bed. Bucky froze.

 

“No, no. Just...trust me,” Steve said. Bucky nodded and they lay down together, face to face. They didn’t talk, just kissed and touched and learnt about each other anew. Whatever danger was following them was far away for now. They could have this.

 

***

 

Bucky ran his fingers through Steve’s hair, slow and tender. He looked happy. Steve didn’t think he had seen him look like this since they had met.

 

“I’d forgotten how this could feel,” he murmured. 

 

Steve smiled and snuggled in closer to him. “Me too. It’s been a while.”

 

Bucky kissed him on the lips and wrapped his arm around Steve, sighing deeply as Steve tucked his head into Bucky’s neck. They were both silent for a while.

 

“What now?” Steve asked softly. “What do we do now?”

 

Bucky tensed a little. “We need to go somewhere where you’ll be safe.”

 

“With you?”

 

Bucky tensed. “You’re not safe with me. You’re here with me and it’s fucked up.”

 

Steve propped himself up on one elbow. “How am I safer alone? If what you said about Hydra is true, they’ll find me. They’ll find me and use me against you. I’m safer with you.”

 

Bucky stared up at the ceiling. “I’ll get you relocated, change your identity. I know people who can help - ”

 

Steve sat up. “Bucky, whatever happens, I’m giving up my life in New York, my work. I have no family and only a few acquaintances - I can’t just start again on my own. What would I do?”

 

Bucky looked at him; there was so much sorrow in his eyes. How had Steve never seen it all before? “I’m not worth it, Steve. I’m not worth following.”

 

Steve leaned back down and brushed a few stray strands of hair out of Bucky’s eyes. “You are. And you’re right: I’m here now because of you but...going forward, I  _ want _ to be with you. You’re worth it. You deserve a chance at a life again. If it means I give mine up so you can have that chance? I want you to have it.”

 

Bucky’s face twisted. “I can’t ask that of you.”

 

“You’re not. I’m offering. We’re in this together now. I...this isn’t how I thought my life would turn out. Everything I knew is gone. I have to accept that. What I won’t accept is you being alone. Take me with you. Please.”

 

Bucky stared up at him and a tear rolled down his face. “How can you be so selfless? I took everything away from you.”

 

“You didn’t. Hydra did. They want you? Fine. But they have to go through me first.”

 

“Steve, this isn’t a game. They’re dangerous.” 

 

Steve clenched his jaw. “Then teach me how to take care of myself.”

 

Bucky closed his eyes for a long time. “Alright,” he finally said.

 

Relief flooded Steve again. “We need to do one thing first: I need to go back to New York.”

 

Bucky’s eyes snapped open. “What? No, absolutely not.”

 

“I don’t have much of a life but I can’t just disappear. I need to close the gallery, take care of some things. If I just vanish, there will be people who notice and that will make things worse, give something for Rumlow to look for.”

 

Bucky sat up next to Steve and scrubbed his face with one hand. He looked exhausted. “How long would it take to sort everything out?”

 

“Less than a day. There’s a chance that Rumlow is already after us; if we double back, it might buy us some more time.”

 

Bucky almost looked amused. “You’re pretty stubborn, you know that?”

 

“It’s been said.” Steve took Bucky’s hand and threaded their fingers together. “I’ll go wherever you want but I have to do this first.”

 

“I...I might not be able to protect you. If something bad happens. You need to know that,” Bucky said, his face pained.

 

Steve kissed him. “I know,” he said softly. 

 

Bucky pulled him closer and ran his hand down Steve’s face. “We’ll leave tonight.”

 

Steve closed his eyes as Bucky kissed him gently on the neck. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered. 

 

He was trying to convince himself more than Bucky.

 

***

 

They caught a bus that evening. Bucky had gone out and bought them new clothes - shirts and jeans and hoodies, two new identical cell phones with new SIM cards and some food for the journey. The plan was to catch a bus from Des Moines to Chicago and then get a car. From there, they would drive back to New York.

 

“We won’t be taking the same route,” Bucky had said as they boarded the bus, sitting together at the back. “It’ll be a long drive but I don’t want to risk anything, not even driving down a road we’ve already taken.”

 

They were quiet on the bus ride, pressed together and holding hands. Steve’s throat was tight with fear; it was risky to go back to New York but he had to tie things up. He couldn’t just disappear. He rested his head against the window, watching the stars above as the bus sped through the night.

 

His life was changing and he had a few hours to reconcile himself to that fact.

 

***

 

They found a motel in Chicago and slept before Bucky went out to get a car. They couldn’t leave any kind of paper trail by renting a car and whilst Steve didn’t like stealing, Bucky again promised to leave the car where it could be found.

 

The drive was long and Bucky was tense. They didn’t speak much but a few times, Bucky reached across and took Steve’s hand. They stopped once at a truck stop and slept in the car, getting coffee and pancakes to eat on the road. New York was growing closer.

 

“I have a friend who can take you off the grid,” Bucky said after hours of silence. “If I give him your name and social security number, he can make it so you don’t exist. Untraceable.”

 

Steve swallowed. “I won’t be Steve Rogers anymore?”

 

“Only to me,” Bucky said. “He can clear your accounts, remove you from any databases and sell your place. Make sure the money all goes to me. Do you trust me to get in touch with him?”

 

Steve nodded. This was really happening. 

 

“Steve, you don’t have to come with me. I can get you somewhere else, somewhere - “

 

“No. I want to be with you.”

 

Bucky’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “We need to be fast. In and out of your apartment no longer than is absolutely necessary.”

 

“I’ll try,” Steve said wanly. He was already composing the letter he was going to send to Sam in his head. Sam was his ex-boyfriend and now lived in Washington DC. He would worry horribly when he got the letter and instructions from Steve but he wouldn’t question it. He was the only other person in the world that Steve trusted and he felt terrible for what he was going to burden Sam with but he had no other choice.

 

They would reach New York after dark. With any luck, Brock Rumlow was hundreds of miles away in the wrong direction.

 

***

 

Bucky parked the stolen car five blocks away from Steve’s apartment and they kept to the alleys and side streets on their way there. Steve was aware of a change in Bucky: He was hyper alert, walking differently, his eyes piercing and wide. He instinctively kept Steve close to him and faced the street. They took the back entrance to Steve’s apartment and Steve was terrified until they were finally inside. Bucky made him stay in the hallway whilst he checked every room and then nodded. Steve guessed that if Rumlow had been in here, he wouldn’t have left a trace of himself. It scared him to think that someone so brutal could be as careful as Bucky. He tried not to think that Bucky was just as brutal when he had to be.

 

“Do what you have to do.”

Steve gathered every scrap of paperwork with his name on it. He wrote the letter to Sam, his hands trembling the whole time and stuffed it into a manilla envelope along with the lease to the gallery and the names and emails addresses of all of his clients. He handed everything else to Bucky, including his bank cards, passport and driver’s license.

“Is this everything?” Bucky asked and seemed satisfied when Steve nodded. He pulled out one of the new cell phones he had bought and inserted the SIM card. He called a number. “Stark? It’s Barnes. Yes. Can you wipe someone off the grid? Yeah. Steven Grant Rogers, social security number 898-5378-2246. A friend. Call me back on this number.” He hung up.

“That’s...that’s it?” Steve asked, clutching the envelope for Sam.

Bucky stood by the window and peered around the drapes. “Yes. He’ll call me back when it’s done. Stark is fast; I don’t know how he does it.”

Steve’s legs felt weak. He was no longer Steven Grant Rogers.

Bucky looked at him and his face softened a little. “Is there anything you want to bring with you? You can pack a bag. Something easy to carry.”

Steve nodded and stumbled back into his bedroom. He packed a few of his favorite books, some sketchbooks and art materials, his old blue hoodie that was worn and comfortable. He found the small wooden box filled with photographs of his parents and desperately wished that they were still alive. He wiped his eyes and went back into the living room. He didn’t really own an awful lot, nothing that meant a great deal to him. He hugged the bag to his chest.

“Are you sure that’s all you want to take?” Bucky said. He walked over to Steve and gently placed his hands on Steve’s shoulders.

“Yes. The rest is just...stuff.” He looked around. He would miss this place; it had been good to him.

Bucky kissed him. “You don’t have to do this for me,” he said softly.

Steve clutched him and kissed him back. “I want to.”

Before Bucky could say anything else. His cell rang. He looked at the number on the screen and answered. “Is it done? Thanks Stark. I’ll get in touch with a forwarding address for the new ID. You too.” He hung up and then looked at Steve. “You no longer exist.”

Steve felt a strange sense of simultaneous disconnect and freedom. All of a sudden, he wanted to leave, to go wherever they were going. “We should go.”

“We’ll get another car. I don’t want to take any chances,” Bucky said. He pulled on his baseball cap. “Are you ready?”

Steve swallowed. “Yes.”

On the way out, he took one last longing look at his home. The abstract painting of Bucky was still on the hallway wall. It would be a little awkward to carry it but he took it down before locking his door for the final time.

***

They walked for a long time to an area of Brooklyn that Steve had never been. He guessed it must have been Red Hook; most of the buildings were large - warehouses. The air was cold and Steve shivered a little, the shirt and jacket Bucky had bought him too light. He could smell the river.

Bucky stopped them besides a large building with a sign looming above them: SPACE TO LET. He led Steve into the shadows.

“Do you need to rest? I’m sorry - I just wanted to make sure we were out of sight. I don’t want that stolen car traced back to us.”

Steve leant against the concrete bricks of the building. “I’m okay. Just a little cold. I don’t want to hold you up.”

Bucky drew Steve into his arms. “You’re not.” He kissed the top of Steve’s head. “You...you need to know how much I...the fact that you’re doing all of this for me. It’s...it’s been a long time since anyone has cared for me. The things I’ve done -  ”

Steve drew back. “Bucky, you’re not that person anymore. You don’t have to be. You’re starting again. What you did...you did because you  _ had _ to. You had no choice.”

“But I did it,” Bucky said quietly. He looked Steve in the eyes. “I did it and remember every single life I took. Can you be with someone with that much blood on their hands?”

Steve took Bucky’s hands in his and held them palm up. “The blood isn’t yours,” he said angrily but the anger wasn’t directed at Bucky. “It’s Hydra’s. It always will be. If I have to remind you of that every day for the rest of our lives, I will.” He closed Bucky’s hands over his and kissed them.

Bucky squeezed back tears. “I don’t deserve you but I’m going to try my damndest to make sure you don’t regret coming with me.”

Steve was about to answer when the concrete next his head exploded. He hit the floor with Bucky, his left ear ringing. Not just ringing,  _ squealing _ . He could feel blood dripping down his face but everything felt hazy and faraway. He could see Bucky in front of him shouting, his face filled with fear and then he was up and running, being pulled along. There was a muffled sound as another part of the wall sprayed out concrete, missing Steve again by inches. He felt like he was in a dream. Through his daze, he replayed Bucky’s terrified face and saw his lips mouth one word.

_ Rumlow. _

***

They burst into the warehouse - Bucky had kicked the door with surprising force - and ran into the darkness. Bucky steered them around conveyor belts and heavy machinery until they were away from the door. Steve’s head started to clear when Bucky sat him down and he absently touched the left side of his head. There wasn’t much light but he could see the dark liquid on his hand when he looked at it.

“Steve, Steve!” Bucky was touching his face. “Can you hear me?”

Steve’s left ear was now buzzing. “Yes,” he said, surprised at how calm he felt. “But I think I’m deaf in this ear.”

Bucky’s face crumpled. “He found us.”

Steve slumped against the machine they were hiding behind, the metal cold against the back of his neck. “It’s my fault. I convinced you to come back.”

Bucky’s face clouded with anger. “No, it isn’t. It’s mine for dragging you into this. But I’m going to finish it. He’s  _ not _ taking you away from and he’s  _ not _ taking me back to whatever is left of Hydra.”

Steve opened his mouth to answer but the door they had come through opened with a sharp squeak. They both froze. The door closed.

There was silence for a moment and then a deep chuckle.

“Hey, Bucky Boy. Guess who?” Rumlow’s voice was a little more nasal than it had been but Steve’s skin prickled all the same. “I know you’re in here with your little boyfriend. I had a hunch you’d come back to New York; I’ve been casing the twink’s place for days and it totally paid off. I almost shot him then and there through the window but where’s the fun in that?” There were slow, almost leisurely footsteps as Rumlow began to walk. “Besides, a little payback is in order. You totally messed up my face: Broken cheekbone, broken jaw, broken nose. I’m in a lot of  _ pain _ , Bucko. All because of him. Well, I’m gonna kill him in front of you and we’ll see if that evens things out a little. What do you say?”

Steve glanced at Bucky; his fists were clenched and his eyes were taking on a terrifying shine. 

“I was aiming to kill out there and as much as I want to blame my face being fucked up for missing, I never was as good as you. Hey Steve - bet you didn’t know that you’re bumping uglies with one of the best snipers in the business? Never misses does ol’ Buck. Headshots are his specialty.”

Bucky looked at Steve with shame and fear but Steve just shook his head sharply.  _ Don’t let him get to you _ , he tries to say with his own eyes. 

“You know how many people he’s killed? A hell of a lot more than me and I  _ enjoyed _ it. Jimmy always said he hated it but, well. If he hated it that much he could have left a lot sooner than he did. Just a thought.” Steve can hear the grin in Rumlow’s voice. He was far away from them, over the other side of the warehouse.

Bucky straightened a little. “Stay here,” he whispered. “Stay hidden.”

Steve’s terror suddenly broke over him. “Bucky, no, please -” 

“As long as he’s out there, we’re not safe.”

Steve grabbed Bucky’s arm. “Are you going to kill him?”

Bucky held Steve’s face. “No. I don’t do that anymore. But I’ll make sure he can’t follow us.” He kissed Steve softly. “I think I love you.”

Steve blinked but before he could say anything, Bucky was gone.

Steve scrambled as quietly as he could under one of the conveyor belts and lay flat. As long as Rumlow kept talking, he could move and hide. Visibility was low in the warehouse so that was an advantage he had.

“You might as well come out,” Rumlow said, his voice somewhere far to Steve’s left. He had to turn his head to properly head him. “Because whatever happens, I’m killing your boyfriend and taking you with me, Barnes.” All jovialness had left his voice now and there was just cruel indifference left.

“You can try.” Bucky’s voice rang out in the darkness somewhere. He sounded defiant and angry.

There was a burst of gunfire and Steve buried his head in his hands. He could see the flashes illuminating the warehouse. There was a muffled cry and he raised his head, panicked: Bucky has been hurt.

Rumlow laughed. “Hey, guess who has night-vision goggles.” Steve heard Rumlow’s pace quicken and then a clanking sound as he ascended one of the steel staircases to a walkway above the machinery. “Give it up, Barnes. You can’t outrun me. I can see in the dark and you can’t.”

It took Steve all of ten seconds to decide not to hide anymore. He scooted out from underneath the conveyor and moved at a crouch towards the sound of Rumlow’s footsteps. He could make out a shape moving above him.

“You always were faster than me and better with a gun,” Rumlow sneered, “but you’re unarmed in the dark with baggage. And bleeding.” He said this with pure glee and Steve’s fear turned to anger. “Think your squeeze will come out if I have a little fun with you?”

“You leave him alone,” Bucky snarled into the darkness and Steve couldn’t tell where he was. He was above on the walkway somewhere and it was only a matter of time before Rumlow caught him and if Bucky was hurt, he might not have a chance. Steve couldn’t just cower and let that happen. He was no match for Rumlow, he knew that from experience, but he could do  _ something _ .

As Steve moved, his foot connected with something heavy. A toolbox. He squinted in the poor light and carefully picked up a hammer and two hefty spanners. He stood and threw the hammer as hard as he could away from himself and Bucky. There was a few seconds of silence and then a clang. Rumlow turned and fired but not at the hammer:  At Steve. Steve had just enough time to throw himself on the ground, actually feeling a bullet pass him as it cut the air by his head.

“You little shit! You think I’m dumb enough to fall for that?”

It was enough to distract Rumlow though because there was suddenly the sound of pounding feet on the walkway above and a roar as Bucky launched himself at the other man. Rumlow cried out in anger as his gun fell from the walkway and clattered to the ground below. Then there was just the terrible sounds of snarls and fighting. Steve stood and his could see Bucky and Rumlow above him but they were nothing but a dark blur. He picked up one of the spanners and drew back his arm, praying that he wouldn’t hit Bucky as he threw it with all his might.

Steve could have cheered when there was contact and a loud crack and then an outraged scream from Rumlow. He had broken the night-vision goggles.

“I’m gonna skin you alive,” Rumlow shrieked but he was cut off as Bucky barrelled into him, sending his flying over the safety rail of the walkway. There was a sickening sound as Rumlow fell onto one of the machines and a scream of pain that Steve didn’t think he’d ever forget. He slumped to the floor.

Bucky ran down the metal steps. “Steve? Steve, where are you?”

“Here,” Steve said, his voice shaky with adrenaline. 

Bucky was by his side in an instant, holding him. “Are you okay?”

Steve clutched at him and nodded. “I’m fine.” His hand touched something wet on Bucky’s thigh. “You’re bleeding,” he said frantically. “You’re shot!”

“It’s just a graze,” Bucky said. “I’ll be alright. Come on, we’re leaving.”

Rumlow was still howling with pain. “You broke my back, you broke my fucking back.”

Bucky got Steve to his feet and they weaved through the machinery away from Rumlow as he screamed after them.

“We’ll find you, Barnes! Hydra is growing again. They won’t let you leave; they’ll find you and kill  _ him _ with so much pain and make you watch! You’ll beg to come back!  _ You’ll fucking beg! _ ”

Steve glanced at Bucky; his jaw was tight and his eyes were hard. “They’ll have to find me first,” he said.

They left the warehouse, Rumlow’s garbled threats following them out into the night until they couldn’t hear him any more. Bucky stopped to tourniquet his thigh but the bleeding was already slowing; it was just a graze. 

Bucky gingerly touched the cut on Steve’s head above his ear. Blood was crusting in his hair and it was sticky around his ear and the side of his face. “I’m so sorry.”

Steve kissed him. “We’re alive, Buck. “

“Thanks to you. You saved my life. In...in more ways than one.”

They kissed hungrily, grateful to be alive and together and Steve knew that this was what he wanted - to be with Bucky. They pulled apart and breathed into the cold night air, foreheads pressed together.

“I think I love you too,” Steve said quietly and a small sob escaped Bucky. He buried his face into Steve’s shoulder. Steve held him as he cried, this man who had everything taken from him and now maybe had a chance at something. Bucky kissed Steve again, his tears hot and salty on his lips.

“We should go.”

Steve nodded and they walked together into the night.

***

There was a package for Steve at the post office - a long cardboard tube and he smiled when he saw it. The postmark was from New Zealand this time and he shook his head; how the hell did Sam do it? He thanked the woman behind the counter and headed outside, tightening his scarf around his neck and walked off towards his car. 

He thought that New York winters had been bad but it was nothing compared to Alaskan winters. Bucky liked to joke that Steve would quite happily hibernate through the winter and he wasn’t too far off. Steve spent most of his time bundled up in at least four layers, no matter how warm the house was.

“Grant! Hey Grant!” Steve turned at the voice and smiled.

“Hi John,” he said. John Wakely owned one of Point Hope’s more popular bars and Steve did a lot of artwork for him - signage, posters for the live music that the bar was popular for, menus. It was good work.

“Sorry to catch you while you’re busy but I was wondering if you could rustle me up a poster for Thursday? I know it’s short notice but I’ll pay you extra and throw in a free burger for you and Jack at the bar.”

Steve smiled. “No problem. I got time.”

John dug around in his coat pocket and gave Steve a sheet of paper with the details.“Thank god you moved here when you did; I’d be making my own shitty posters from clipart and comic sans otherwise.”

Steve laughed. “You just described my worst nightmare. Anything in particular you want?”

“Nope, do what you like. Have some fun.”

“I will. I’ll email you with some options.”

John clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks so much, Grant. You say hi to Jack for me.”

“I will.” Steve waved goodbye.

He drove back to the small house that he and Bucky lived in and it was tempting to just go inside and make himself a huge coffee, put some music on and make a start on John’s poster but he needed to train. He sighed and headed around back instead of going in through the front door.

Their back yard was well concealed, surround by a high fence and fir trees, like most of the houses on the street. Steve put his mail down on the back porch and walked over to the big tree at the end of the yard. The trunk was a mess of splintered wood and peeling bark. He picked up the rolled tarp lying on the ground next to it and then walked back to the porch. He unrolled the tarp and picked up three of the knives tucked within.

He and Bucky had fled New York the night Bucky had broken Rumlow’s back, stealing another car and driving to Pennsylvania where they had laid low until Steve had his new ID. Then they had driven up and into Canada, staying for short periods in different towns, eventually making their way to Alaska and settling in Point Hope. It had been eleven months now and Steve still wasn’t quite used to being Grant Buchanan. He was happy though; his old life now seemed like a dream he’d once had. He was completely deaf in his left ear though; a reminder of Rumlow and the danger they were still in.

Sam had been worried about him but, with some hidden help from Tony Stark, had sold Steve’s gallery and made sure his clients had been informed and reimbursed. That was one thing Steve was still sad about; he missed his art. He still drew and painted but he couldn’t show anyone his work in case it was recognised. They couldn’t risk any chance of drawing Hydra to them again so he concentrated on a more graphic, commercial style to earn his living from now. He did well from it, enough to subsidize Bucky’s income from the fish-packing plant. Sam sent him mail from time to time, managing to reroute it so it was untraceable. Steve would never forgive himself if anything ever happened to Sam but Bucky had assured him that Hydra wouldn’t try to get to him through Steve’s ex or his former gallery clients. Still, Steve worried.

He threw the knives expertly at the tree, just like Bucky had taught him. Much to Steve’s surprise and slight horror, he was a good fighter and a quick learner. He never would have thought he was capable of hitting a target with a knife from long range, or be able to get Bucky in a choke hold he couldn’t get out of but he was glad of it. He could handle himself now. He spent the next half hour, throwing the knives - his mind blank and focussed. He had just pulled the knives from the trunk ready for another round when he heard a voice.

“Boy’s got skills.”

Steve smiled and turned. Bucky was on the back porch, watching him with folded arms and a huge grin.

“Well, I was trained by the best.” He walked across the yard and met Bucky in a kiss. “You’re home early.”

Bucky grinned. “I took half a day. Wanted to come home and see if my boy fancied getting dirty.”

Steve laughed softly. “That was a little presumptuous of you, don’t you think?”

Bucky ran a hand through his hair. It was cut short these days and it made him look younger and kind of dashing. He had laughed hard when Steve had told him that. He looked happy too though, most days. Some days, Steve couldn’t help but see the worried look Bucky sometimes got in his eyes. He nodded at the tree. “Seriously though, you’re getting better.”

Steve sighed and tucked the knives back into the tarp. “It’s something I kind of wish I wasn’t good at.”

Bucky looped an arm around Steve’s waist. “I know,” he said softly.

“Did you really come home early for me?” Steve said.

Bucky kissed him and Steve already knew the answer; there was want in Bucky’s kiss. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Steve smiled. “You’ll get in trouble if you keep taking half days for me.”

Bucky tucked a strand of hair behind Steve’s ear. Whereas his was short now, Steve’s was longer. “You’re worth it.” He saw the tube that Steve had picked up from the post office. “What’s that?”

Steve grinned and took Bucky’s hand, bending down to pick up the package. “A gift for you. Come on.” He led Bucky into the house.

Steve took his coat off and draped it over one of their kitchen chairs. “Open it.”

Bucky looked at the postmark and chuffed. “Sam’s getting creative.” He opened the end of the tube and carefully pulled out the roll of paper. When he unfurled it, his breath caught. “How...how did you…?” Tears sprung to his eyes.

“I asked Sam to save it. I always wanted you to have it.” He stepped next to Bucky and watched as Bucky carefully lay the paper on the table. It was the charcoal piece from Steve’s gallery that Bucky had seen all that time ago. It was a self-portrait of Steve. He had drawn it one day whilst feeling a little lost and uninspired; in the picture, he had sad, uncertain eyes and his face was in shadow but there was light coming from the side of the page, almost like a door was opening, a door to something more. Hope, maybe.

“How does it make you feel?” he asked.

Bucky just took Steve’s hand and led him to the bedroom.

Afterwards, curled together in their warm bed, sleepy and content from sex as the afternoon grew hazy with the threat of more snow, Bucky nuzzled into Steve’s neck and kissed him slowly.

“Thank you for the picture,” he said.

Steve ran his hand lazily down Bucky’s naked side. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m so happy here with you,” Bucky whispered.

He always said things like this so Steve almost wouldn’t hear him. Like he didn’t deserve to say them. He was still struggling with his past; he saw a therapist and Steve didn’t know how much the therapist really knew about “Jack Monroe” and what Bucky actually told him, but days like today when Bucky would finish work early and take Steve to bed were days he was struggling and needed reassurance, even if he didn’t come out and say it.

Steve turned in bed and faced Bucky. “I’m happy here with you too. I love you, Buck.”

Bucky swallowed thickly. “What if it doesn’t last? Rumlow could have been all talk but what if Hydra is growing again? What if -”

Steve silenced him with a kiss. “We’ll handle it. But right now? We’re here and we’re together.” He rolled Bucky onto his back and straddled him. He kissed Bucky slowly and deeply. “You’re worth everything to me,” he said softly.

Bucky turned his head away, blinking. Steve gently turned his head back to face him. “Steve, I don’t -”

“You do,” Steve said firmly. “You deserve me. You deserve this.” He started to kiss his way down Bucky's body. Bucky ran his hands through Steve's hair.

That night, after dinner and more sex, Steve lay awake with Bucky curled into his side, sleeping soundly. He watched the snow fall outside and wondered if tonight would be one of the nights that Bucky woke screaming and frantic, his horrific past haunting his dreams. Steve would comfort him if he did as best he could.

He didn’t regret his decision to come with Bucky but he knew that they were in danger still. He didn’t care though.

If Hydra came, they would be ready for them.

  
  



End file.
